


As We Know It

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Fluff, Getting Together, Good Omens References, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 20:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18395978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: It’s been so long on this Earth that neither Alec or Magnus remember which of them is supposed to be the angel and which is the demon, put in modern terms. Alec will happily admit, in bed at night, when nobody is around to skim his thoughts, that Magnus is the most angelic of the two of them.Even if Magnus disagrees, verbally, loudly,emphatically.





	As We Know It

**Author's Note:**

> I took bits from Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Geiman, to create this piece of ridiculousness. I tried to keep them as in character as possible, but I’m just having a bit of fun. You definitely don’t need to have read Good Omens for this to make sense, since this is not at all what happens in the book. I simply stole the general... environment? Who knows!
> 
> Only warning is bad language and mild sexual references. 
> 
> The title is from that one song by R.E.M.

“Well, I mean, in the grand scheme of things,” Magnus begins, gazing down at the ground where the sleeping hell-baby resides, the printed collar of his crisp Versace shirt sticking up in a ruffled, agitated fashion, “I suppose it could be worse. Mind you, I don't think I’m wrong in saying that this is definitely not what either side had in mind, I imagine.” 

Alec rubs a hand over the bridge of his nose, underneath his glasses. He’s long since erased any imprints the nose pads leave behind when he wears them for too long, but they still irritate him at times. Correcting his eyesight seems like too much effort—it’s got nothing to do with how much Magnus seems to enjoy the way they slip down his nose, or how his smile grows when Alec peers at him over the tops. Nothing to do with that at all. 

It’s been a long night, and Alec’s candy blue Ford Anglia— _vintage,_ not trash, thank you very much, and fully functioning now that he’s ruthlessly stripped it down and restored it—is idling on the curb, lights blinking intermittently to the beat of _Sweet Child O’ Mine._ The song ekes loosely out the fuzzy radio, drowning in the click of cicadas and the rustle of drowsy night air. He glances down at the hell-baby and thinks about how much he hates the fact that his car has a sense of irony. That, plus his life. He hates that too. 

“Bit of an understatement,” Alec says, when Magnus looks to him for agreement. Alec takes his glasses off and banishes them, although it takes a couple of tries with Magnus’s eyes fixed fondly on him. 

The hell-baby is nestled in a thorn-ridden bush on the side of an empty street, which is absolutely not where it was supposed to be. When Above and Below sent word via telegram—attached to a sleek black raven, because dramatic tendencies were how they operated—about the disastrous bundle of joy that was supposed to arrive on Earth’s doorstep, armed to the teeth and overflowing with malicious power, Alec had expected a bit more fan-fare. A few streamers, a celebration full of hellhounds and cherubs, a chorus of hymns and perhaps an exorcism or two, to liven the event. Even a cake. 

Some care, perhaps, in where the hell-baby landed. Not that Alec cares, of course. He’s beyond such things by now, and there’s more important stuff to worry about than hell-babies. 

“Stop,” Magnus says, hiding a smile. 

“Stop what?” Alec scrunches an eyebrow at him, offended, and then holds his breath when the hell-baby shifts in its sleep. 

“I can practically feel you calling it something derisive in your mind,” Magnus murmurs, his tone dangerously close to affectionate.

“Careful,” Alec says, not as evenly as he’d like. “You almost sounded like you liked me, then.”

“Heaven forbid.”

And that, Alec thinks ruefully, is the gist of it. Heaven and Hell are outdated terms for what goes on Above and Below, but they suit the purpose well enough. Above has flourished, ditched the antiquated wallpaper detailing snakes and apples and turned into a sprawling, lush garden, complete with a towering castle and roaming white peacocks. At least, that’s how Alec pictures it. He hasn’t exactly been to tea in a while. 

Below hasn’t done too badly, either. Alec likes the new chaise lounge in the Reception, and the pot plants are no longer skeletal and wilting. The monster that ferries the souls across the gap even washed its cloak the other day, and fixed the rapidly-expanding hole in the boat. 

The point is, Above and Below are different now. They’re supposed to be on the same side. Or rather, there _are_ no sides. No good and dark magic, only intentions. No working against each other, only _with,_ towards similar goals, if not the same. And yet there are still… stirrings, of ideals. Old habits long since entrenched in the minds of others, about who can and cannot interact. About whether the separation between each side should still be there.

Magnus smooths his collar down, the only sign that he’s a little nervous. The hell-baby is still asleep. It looks, Alec thinks, like a perfectly normal baby. Granted, he hasn’t seen a baby in a while, apart from the few that toddle down the streets with their sticky hands clenched in their parents’ fists, or the little pink and blue parcels tucked safely in their prams that he looks at curiously every now and again, on his way to test the new Chinese that’s just opened up nearby.

There’s a tuft of dark hair, and a pink curl of a mouth, and small fists clutching tightly at the itchy, burlap fabric it’s wrapped in. Alec doesn’t know why a blanket wasn’t found. Magnus eyes the thing distastefully. He’s not sure if the look is aimed at the baby or the sack. 

“What are we supposed to do with it, do you think?” Magnus asks. 

Alec examines the toe of his Oxfords, forced upon him by Magnus in one of his drunken, insistent states, when he polished off a bottle of the finest gas station wine and tore through Alec’s wardrobe with all the politeness of a rampaging hurricane, throwing out what he didn't like and replacing it with soft, chic clothes that Alec didn't like at all. The result was more mesh than Alec knows what to do with, and an abundance of suits. At least he let Alec keep the hoodies. 

He examines the Oxfords, shrugs, and nudges the burlap sack gently with his toe. The hell-baby immediately opens its eyes and begins to wail, a sickening, ear-splitting sound that makes all sort of blasted emotions rise up in Alec. A flock of birds take flight from the surrounding trees, and down the road, a street lamp bursts, shattering glass over the cool tarmac and flickering out.

Magnus looks torn between hunkering down and soothing the hell-baby and ascending to Above to escape the racket. He can still ascend, which Alec frankly finds insulting, because he’s pretty sure that he could do that once, too. It’s been so long on this Earth that neither Alec or Magnus remember which of them is supposed to be the angel or the demon, put in modern terms, but Alec will happily admit, in bed at night, when nobody is around to skim his thoughts, that Magnus is the most angelic of the two of them. Even if Magnus disagrees, verbally, loudly, _emphatically._

The few times Alec has tried to go Above have left him with a fierce headache and a hollow sense of disappointment. Alec’s memory isn’t the best, not after so long, and he often wonders what he did to deserve banishment from Above, but he suspects he doesn’t want to know. It’s probably something terribly boring and bureaucratic. Either that, or the half-remembered night in Tokyo with Magnus, thirty or so years ago. 

He blushes just thinking about it. 

“I’ve told you, the banishment will wear off within a few centuries, and you’ll be allowed back Up,” Magnus says, brushing a comforting hand over Alec’s shoulder as their thoughts collide again, although not quite as in sync as usual, thank heaven. “Now, what do we do with this?”

“You should probably pick it up,” Alec suggests. 

Magnus—neat, fussy, lovely Magnus, who’s very rarely messy, and who once accidentally zapped a pigeon after it shit on his sleeve purely because his emotions were so out of control, and then proceeded to donate a small fortune to every wildlife charity he could find out of guilt—gives Alec a glare so incandescent that he’s surprised he doesn’t immediately catch fire. 

“Why do I have to be the one to pick it up?” Magnus says witheringly, but he obliges. The hell-baby looks small in his arms, and it doesn’t stop wailing, which means Alec’s ears start protesting as Magnus brings it closer. 

“It likes you,” Alec says, despite evidence to the contrary. He edges away. “I guess that’s settled then, isn’t it? You can wait here for the new parents to arrive, and I’ll just…”

Magnus carefully cradles the baby in one arm, and snaps the fingers of his free hand. The radio in the car dies with a horrible screech of angry, interrupting violins, and the headlights give a weak pulse before evaporating. Alec stares at the dark shape mutinously. It’s not going to start, now, not unless Magnus wills it to. 

“You’re the bane of my existence,” Alec says. Words that fool nobody. Magnus shifts the hell-baby, which quiets suddenly when Alec steps into view. Its eyes are a little red. From crying or from demon blood is anyone’s guess. 

The baby is undeniably sweet-looking. Alec feels of stirring of guilt for leaving it on the ground for so long. 

“Why did they choose us for this, again?” Alec grumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Magnus sighs, both at the question and the show of inelegance. His mouth twitches a little in amusement, and Alec looks away.

“I don't know, Alexander. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see who comes along to take it off our hands. They’re supposedly very well equipped to deal with the End of the World in its youthful form.”

Alec grunts, watching the hell-baby watch him. 

“Just a few more minutes, and then we won’t have to worry about it anymore,” Magnus assures him, his voice teetering on the edge of warmth. “You can go home and eat your disgusting smoked pork with pickles in front of that… contraption.”

“You know very well that it’s a TV, Magnus,” Alec says, but he bumps him slightly with his hip in gratitude. It’s an awkward movement that just delights Magnus even more. “Just - keep an eye on the hell-baby, will you? I don't like the way it’s staring at me.”

*

“Morton,” Magnus suggests.

Alec eyes him incredulously. “Did you just suggest that we name this kid after a ninety-year-old pompous windbag Granddad?”

Magnus’s dark eyebrow forms a triangle, and Alec sets the hell-baby down in the conjured cot in the new room off the side of Magnus’s flat. It’s a very spacious flat, full of beautiful treasures and old books and some mundane, ordinary things, but there isn’t usually a nursery or a cot or a bouncer or a bag with with white, puffy undergarments and suspicious creams inside it. 

“Look, Morton is the name of a rich, smug bastard with asparagus in his teeth and a pipe in his gob,” Alec explains, waving his hands as he attempts to paint a vivid picture. He’s fully aware that Magnus is teasing him, probably, but he’s also aware that Magnus likes to take a joke and run with it, for miles, until it’s too late to stop whatever’s been set in motion. “Morton’s one of those people who thinks he’s better than everyone else because he owns a Bentley but has someone else to drive him around in it.”

“Oddly specific. And I’m a rich, smug bastard,” Magnus points out, after a moment of pondering Alec’s description. 

“You don't have asparagus in your teeth. You don't even like asparagus.” Alec shrugs. “And you meet some people, when you’re over several thousand years old.”

“Such a youth,” Magnus says fondly, ever quick to remind Alec that he is much, much older. “But you’re not wrong. Do you remember—?”

“Sebastian?” Alec winces. “Unfortunately. What a dick.”

“Bit of a bespawler, too, which personally I’ve always found unnecessary and repugnant.”

“I have no idea what that means, but you’re usually right, so yeah, probably. I haven’t thought about him in… half a century? Not that I’ve really been missing much by forgetting about him. I think I might have blocked him out on purpose, actually.”

Magnus hums in amusement, reaching down to absentmindedly tickle the hell-baby’s toes, now clothed in soft yellow socks rather than burlap. The burlap has been burned, and Magnus took great pleasure in providing the flames and watching it smoulder, before flipping off the smouldering remains. 

“I think we’re getting off track a little,” Magnus says, with a pointed nod at Almost-Morton. “They want to name him something awful, something that induces fear and panic. You suggested Voldemort because your mind is a lovely, surprisingly nerdy place when it wants to be.”

Alec flushes, scowling slightly. “It was a joke.”

“Of course it was, darling boy,” Magnus purrs, leaning back against the wall with a dark, devious look in his eye. “You just wanted to start the End of the World off on the right path. But we can’t call him Voldemort, not if we want someone to take him off our hands eventually. And we can’t call him hell-baby.”

“Yeah, but Morton?” Alec cringes. 

“Well we can’t very well call him Voldy,” Magnus says frostily. 

The baby kicks its feet, tired from all the wailing, although Alec has a sinking feeling that the tiredness won’t stop it from repeating the experience in a few hours. 

They had stood on the side of the road for a good three hours, not willing to admit defeat just yet, but they had eventually been forced to conclude that the parents that were _supposed_ to arrive to take the End of the World in and raise it right were not going to arrive. They could have been eaten by Rogue Dark Forces on the way in, who disapproved of any and all acts born from the coalition of Above and Below, even ones that benefitted them. Or they could have been gently persuaded away by Rogue Light Forces, tempted into better, brighter things, who felt the same. 

Either way, it was obvious that they weren’t coming. 

“We could always put it back in the bush,” Alec had suggested, not really meaning it, and Magnus had promptly slapped him on the arm, manhandled the hell-baby into his arms, and started the car. 

It became clear what was expected of them when they returned home to Alec’s flat, which was closest, to find the nursery attached to the side, wedged between two studies, opposite the training room.

That hadn’t stopped either of them from joining the hell-baby in throwing a dignified tantrum. 

“We’re not calling it Morton,” Alec says decisively. “I won’t be able to look at it without feeling annoyed for all the wrong reasons, ones that it can’t help.” He thinks for a moment, and then smirks in a way that has Magnus smiling slowly. “Okay, so, we didn't ask for this, right? And Above or Below sure as hell didn't warn us about this, yeah? So we’re not calling it something evil.”

Magnus eyes him with growing trepidation, but he still looks reluctantly amused. “I don't think they’re going to like that.”

“Angelic they or demonic they?”

“Both they’s.”

Alec shrugs. “What’s the most boring, common, angelic name you can think of?”

Magnus’s eyes grow wide, and he bites his lip. He quickly resigns himself to Alec’s stubborn expression. They’ve spent years together, popping in and out of each other’s lives, mostly remaining in, and they know each other like the back of their hands. It’s a lot easier to concede defeat when you know the outcome is only going to be a thousand times worse if you don't agree or get involved. 

“I don't know why you always ask me,” Magnus says, sighing. “You’ve been Above too. Of the both of us, I think you’re the more qualified to know things of angelic origin, even if you don't agree with me. But I suppose… Michael. That’s the most average, original angel name I can think of.”

Alec grins, showing teeth that momentarily sharpen with triumph, a bi-product of a weekend spent with a skilled illusionist, learning the craft and attempting to find Magnus—who was much more skilled than either of them—among a selection of potted plants. God, they had been really bored that year. “Michael it is, then.”

Magnus sighs again, staring down at the hell-baby in the cot, eyes half-closed, sucking on his fist. “You are going to irritate so many people, and I’m going to make sure you know which one of us is to blame for that, when the time comes.”

Alec can’t wait.

*

“Alexander,” Magnus says mildly.

Alec does an incredibly splendid impression of a statue, freezing on the spot, one foot raised and his arm halfway through his leather jacket. There are three real statues of him around the world, put there through acts of boredom or mischievousness, and his favourite is the one of him perched on top of the roof of a museum in Italy, diligently eating an apple, that nobody can quite figure out how to remove. This impression isn’t quite up to par. 

Magnus has much more than three statues, a fact which never fails to make him grin like a cheshire cat.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Magnus asks, when Alec fails to respond. “It’s two o'clock in the morning.” 

“Michael needs food, if he’s staying here,” Alec says. He winces and groans, immediately giving in and flopping on the sofa, the crushed velvet one that he sort of despises but keeps anyway because it’s aesthetically pleasing, according to Magnus. 

“I see that you’ve noticed how terrible your lie was,” Magnus says, twitching an eyebrow so that the kettle clicks on in one of the kitchens. “Michael doesn’t eat, as you discovered earlier when you tried to feed him milk, you beautiful disaster.”

“Sleep deprivation plays havoc on a man’s ability to lie,” Alec grumbles, mushing his face into the soft, slightly scratchy surface of the sofa, trying to hide the way his face flames in response to Magnus’s words. 

“Where exactly were you planning on ending up? Tokyo? I know you like the Gyoza in that little place you almost burned down in the ninety’s.” 

Alec rolls his eyes. The fire had mostly been Magnus’s fault. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, I was just going to mess about with the car and skip breakfast. I wasn’t going to abandon you.”

It’s too early for such sentiment, Magnus’s mouth says, but his eyes say something else, and his soft smile tells a different story. He clears his throat and shifts closer, brushing a hand over Alec’s head. His fingers sink briefly into soft, dark curls, messy since birth and untamed always. The scratch of nails over his scalp has Alec purring and Magnus retreating with a wry smile. The absence is a loss that Alec feels keenly, even if he isn’t willing to say so. 

“I’ll make tea,” Magnus suggests. “It’s not as if we need sleep anyway.”

“Two centuries of napping gets you used to sleep pretty quickly.”

“Two centuries of napping gets you out of the loop with all the current debates and leads to blood clots, what with the frequency with which _you_ nap. I’ll make tea, you watch your unseemly programme.”

“No, I’ll make tea, and _you_ watch the Beast from Below,” Alec tells Magnus’s retreating back, staring unblinkingly at the small child currently standing a few feet from him.

“You know I have no interest in your flashy shows.”

“You love my flashy shows,” Alec can’t resist saying, with a bit of a grin, but he quickly wipes it away as the child toddles closer. “And I was talking about the actual, literal Beast from Below.”

Magnus pauses in the kitchen doorway, face marred with confusion as he turns to face the scene. He takes in the child with a raised eyebrow and hums. 

“His name is Michael,” Magnus corrects absently. “Could he stand before?”

“Considering that he looks about three now, and he was a squalling baby with foam for legs before, I’m going to go with no.”

“A recent development then,” Magnus says, nodding. His face lights up with the sort of childlike glee that Alec hasn’t seen in a long time. His eyes are soft and curious, and his mouth is a sweet half-moon. Alec feels his heart do something vaguely threatening inside of him.

“This could be eventful,” Magnus says, as Michael edges closer to Alec. Alec remains where he is, lying as still as anything on the sofa, one half of his face obscured by itchy velvet, and and his limbs flopped all over the place. Michael still has red eyes, but his hair is darker, a little puffy at the tops, giving him a windswept look, and there’s a thoughtful, intelligent look on his face that doesn’t belong to a toddler. 

“You grow fast,” Alec says. Michael reaches him and prods a finger curiously into Alec’s cheek. 

“You grow fast,” Michael repeats, his voice high and edged with a lisp. 

Alec double-takes, as the child pulls himself up onto the sofa and settles in beside Alec’s hip, leaning against his sprawled legs. His clothes have stretched to fit him, and he blinks slowly at the television until it clicks on, lights flashing as it settles on an old spy movie. 

“He learns fast, too,” Magnus murmurs. Two cups of tea snake their way through the air, and he takes his absently while Alec tries not to breathe, lest he disturb the hell-baby.

“Stop calling him that.”

“It’s a term of endearment,” Alec refutes. His tea hovers near his ear, waiting patiently. Michael flicks through the channels, and Alec only interferes when he settles on an old war documentary. He’s already supposed to be the catalyst for the End of the World, and Alec has no intentions of giving him ideas at the tender age of three.

*

“This feels like a mistake of catastrophic proportions.”

“Your protests have been duly noted.” Alec hefts the bag a little further up his shoulder, rumpling his t-shirt. He fits in quite well at the park, with his worn trainers and plaid shirt, but Magnus sticks out like a sore thumb in his violet suit. 

“Versace?” Alec asks, with a nod to where Magnus is fiddling anxiously with the pearlescent buttons. 

“Harvey Nichols,” Magnus says, smoothing down the soft wool. “Michael, come here.” 

Michael studiously ignores Magnus. The past four days have been a study in deciphering the whims of a highly intelligent three-year-old. He hasn’t grown again since the first time, and Magnus reckons it’s because he used quite a large supply of power, and at such a young age, it’ll take a while for it to replenish. Alec reckons it’s because Michael has no interest in growing up and having to do things, because although he’s fiercely independent when it suits him, he doesn’t want to pick up his toys or get dressed by himself. 

Michael’s lingering just inside the park gate, taking in the playground. His eyes are still red, but a quick glamour means that nobody will see the odd, unnerving colour. It’s not too bad, in Alec’s opinion: he’s seen much worse, but average children can be rude, and parents are even worse. Alec slips after him when it’s clear that Michael isn’t going to listen to Magnus, and they wander across the damp grass towards the playground together. 

“I still have no idea if you can understand me,” Alec begins, patting Michael awkwardly on the head as they come to a stop by the bench, “but if you can, then listen up, okay?” 

Michael tips his head to the side to show he’s listening, but his eyes are fixed on the twirly orange slide. He doesn’t speak much, they’ve discovered. Alec can’t decide if that’s a blessing or not. 

“Okay, no going off with strangers. If someone wants to play, and you do too, then you can, but don’t leave the playground, okay? We’ll be right here, we’re not going anywhere. If you need help, just wave at us. Don’t take anything from anybody, don’t eat anything off the ground, and don’t tell anybody about the whole demon-angel-hell thing.”

Magnus makes an amused sound. “He’s not a dog, Alec. He’s not going to eat anything off the ground.” 

“Hey, I’ve never had kids, but I’m pretty sure they eat anything they can find.” 

Magnus looks slightly more worried than he did a moment ago at that realisation. “Ah. Well, yes, I second that. No eating things off the ground. We have food here if you want it, but you don't eat, so I suppose you won’t. Still, it’s there. And don't mention that you were only a day old recently. But I suppose the main thing is to have fun.” 

Alec winces. “We’re shit at this.” 

Michael toddles off without comment, his small legs leading him over to the soft sand beneath the slide. 

“Should we help?” Alec asks. “He’s not exactly a normal kid, and I feel like he’d probably explode us if we tried to lift him up the climbing frame.” 

“But this feels wrong,” Magnus adds, nodding in agreement, guilt in every line of his face. “He’s still just a child. What do we do, Alexander?” 

Michael looks small as he reaches the slide, staring up at it curiously. Alec twitches. 

“Oh fuck,” Alec breathes. “Oh fucking he—heck. They’ve done this on purpose. Above and Below. I actually _care_ about that little thing.” 

Magnus sinks onto the nearby bench with a grimace. “I suppose it was bound to happen.” 

“No it wasn’t,” Alec says incredulously. He tugs on his hair, seething. “It absolutely fucking wasn’t.”

“No use crying about it now, I guess,” Magnus says. He plucks the bag from Alec and fishes out a juice box, setting it up beside them should Michael come back. His hands are all shaky, fluttering about, and Alec feels like he’s vibrating apart just watching him. 

“So that’s it?” Alec asks. Michael is around the other end now, climbing up the steps, paying no attention to the other children shrieking and rushing about. “We just raise a baby? A three-year-old who was a baby? We don't know how he works! He’s supposed to be the Spawn of Evil. He doesn’t eat or drink or any of that crap, and apparently he grows whenever he likes. He could be thirty tomorrow, if he wanted to!”

“But he’s not now,” Magnus says, watching avidly as Michael shuffles over to the slide on his bottom, perching at the top and running his fingers over the warm plastic curiously. “He’s still a child. A baby, really. And one of us should probably stand at the bottom so he doesn’t crack his head open on the way down.”

Magnus is off, then, marching across the sand to sit at the bottom of the slide and hold his arms open. Even from this far away, Alec can see the way Michael looks startled, and then hesitantly pleased. A shy, toothy smile lights up his face, and he slips down the slide with a wide-eyed look of glee. 

“Oh, fuck,” Alec says again. He flicks his hand, and the alcohol content in the juicebox rises considerably. It only takes a moment to drain it, and by then Magnus is beckoning him closer as they head towards the swings, Michael’s hand clenched in his.

*

It is hard to judge the passage of time when it has very little effect on you. Alec has been known to let months slip by in the blink of an eye, and cling to passing seconds with an unfair grip.

With Michael, it becomes impossible to tell whether they’re wasting the time they’ve been given. 

“I feel like we’re not doing enough,” Alec says, eyeing the child playing quietly with bricks. Children, in his limited experience, are rarely quiet, and yet Michael doesn’t seem to make much noise, not since he stopped being a baby. 

“How so?” Magnus joins him on the couch. He dries his hand by flicking them, having just vacated the shower that he doesn’t technically need, considering they have power enough to bathe an entire continent in water, should they choose to. Not recommended, though. Things like that always have a way of going wrong, and there _are_ rules, after all. 

Alec wrinkles his nose, gesturing at Magnus’s attire, which consists of thick, soft bath towels and a dressing gown with blooming sleeves. “You dried your hands, but not the rest of you? That makes absolutely no sense. Being wet after you get out of the shower is the worst part of having to shower.”

“Perhaps I just like the freedom this offers me,” Magnus suggests, playing with the hem of his towel, barely touching his knees. His mouth ticks up when Alec scowls, cheeks growing red. “Now, what do you mean about not doing enough?”

“For him,” Alec says. Michael continues to build something, a small structure that looks remarkably like the park they often go to. How he made those swings look so realistic, Alec doesn’t know. 

“I mean,” Alec continues, when Magnus doesn’t speak. “This isn’t exactly a normal childhood we’re offering him, is it? He’s surrounded by us doing magical things all the time. He doesn’t eat, he grows at a strange rate that we don't understand, and his eyes are still red. How are we supposed to teach him what he needs to know?”

Magnus still doesn’t respond, watching Michael carefully. 

“It’s just, how are we supposed to know what he needs? He’s a child, Magnus. An actual child, a being, something that needs caring for! We’re supposed to nurture him, aren’t we? That’s what humans do with children. That’s what I want to do, even though I don't know how, and I’m not happy about it. Just because Above and Below think he should bring about the End of the World doesn’t mean I don't want to take care of him. He’s a child!”

“He’s also listening,” Magnus says, cutting into Alec’s rant. He looks amazed, staring at Michael. Alec whips his head around and spots the way Michael’s head is tipped ever so slightly to the side, ear pricked in their direction. 

“Aren’t you?” Magnus calls softly. 

Michael puts down one of his bricks and gets to his feet. He still has that clumsy toddler gracelessness about him that makes Alec melt, as much as he might not want to. He wobbles over to them, climbing up onto the couch with their careful, hovering help. Then he folds himself into Alec’s lap, tucking his head under Alec’s chin. His tiny feet wriggle about on Alec’s thigh. He feels very small and warm in Alec’s lap. 

Alec shares a panicked, slightly breathless look with Magnus. 

“We never explained everything to you, did we?” Magnus asks, shifting closer to brush Michael’s cheek very gently. “But you’re a smart one, so you must have questions.”

“I know that you’re Magnus,” Michael says, his voice far too eloquent for the size and age of him. “And you’re Alec. And you’ve been looking after me.”

“Trying to,” Alec quips. 

“It’s a good job,” Michael says. “You’re doing a good job.”

Alec tries to keep his hysterical laughter inside. It makes sense, in their life, that they’re being reassured of their parenting by the tiny being they’re trying to parent. 

“You don't have to do that,” Magnus says, tapping Michael lightly on the nose. “You don't have to speak like we do. I imagine they told you all sorts of things, didn't they, the people you were with before? They must have told you that you’d have to grow up quite quickly, and be strong and brave and cruel. That it was your duty to do terrible things.”

Michael shrinks in Alec’s arms. Alec hugs him gently, arms circling him as he quells the rage in his stomach. 

“You don't have to do that,” Alec says firmly. “None of that. You don't have to grow. You can go back to being a baby, if you like, and we’ll take care of you from there. Grow as slowly as you like.”

“Quite right,” Magnus says. “You may be as childlike as you want to be, for as long as you want to be. You may eat cookies if you like, since I imagine they told you that you wouldn’t need to eat unless it was… something unsavoury. Be exactly as you as you need to be. We’ll take care of you.”

Michael is quiet for a minute. Alec feels something change, though he can’t quite tell what. Magnus quirks an eyebrow, staring at Michael, and says, “Does that sound okay, sweetpea?”

Michael blows a loud, messy raspberry, then kicks Alec wildly in the thigh. 

Magnus leans back suddenly, laughter lighting up his face. 

“Seems like he took your words straight to heart.”

“Our words,” Magnus corrected. “And it seems so. All he needed was to hear you being an aggressively affectionate helicopter parent for him to feel safe enough to be himself.”

Alec pulls an undignified face. “Like you’re one to talk.”

Michael babbles then, little bits of gibberish interspersed with their names, and garbled requests for cookies. Seems as though he took _all_ of their words to heart. 

“Oh, you’re going to start being loud, aren’t you?” Alec says, staring fearfully down at Michael. In truth, he doesn’t mind, but he says a mental goodbye to his peace and quiet regardless. 

“I’d say so,” Magnus says warmly. 

Michael smiles toothily up at them.

*

The most pressing thing on Alec’s mind should undoubtedly be whether or not Michael will sleep through the night without climbing out of his cot and toddling into one of their rooms, but it isn’t. Instead, he tosses and turns on the large bed, feeling far too alone. The problem with being alive for a rather long time is that you learn to wait patiently for the things you want.

But when the thing you want is a person who has also lived for a very long time, and subsequently learned this lesson too, it makes patiently waiting a hopeless endeavour rather than the most viable option. 

It has been precisely a month since Michael started being himself. He’s still a little unnervingly quiet at times, and his eyes are the same colour, but for the most part they seem to be raising a happy, bubbly, bright hellish baby. Although not hellish for the reasons that Above and Below sought his creation. 

Precisely a month, possibly the happiest month of Alec’s life, and yet there’s still a missing space in his bed that weighs on his mind. 

Frustrated, Alec slips out of bed, throwing back the covers. Both of his feet hit the floor when Magnus strides into view, standing in the doorway with one hip cocked, staring exasperatedly at Alec in the darkness. 

“You are thinking loudly enough for the entire city to hear you.”

Alec scowls at him. “Why aren’t we having sex?” 

Magnus drops his hand from his hip, his gaze taking on an unreachable quality. “I ask myself the same question every day.”

“Magnus,” Alec protests, his voice softening. “Be serious.”

“Are you asking me why we aren’t having sex right now? I suppose the answer is because we are very far apart, distance wise, and both of us are wearing clothes whilst not touching each other. There’s also the problem of not being aware that sex was on the table. Communication is key, Alexander.”

Alec stands up, heating the floorboards gently with a thought to keep the chill at bay. “Magnus.”

“There’s also a few more general reasons, such as the whole age-old angel and demon rivalry debacle, although neither of us care about that.”

“Magnus.”

“Plus, we added Michael to the mix, which makes things tricky, doesn’t it? I imagine you’d be quite loud.”

_“Magnus.”_

“Not to mention,” Magnus adds, when Alec draws close enough to touch him easily, “that you said you were going to take a nap, as you often do, and said absolutely nothing about sex. I can read minds, Alec, not understand them.”

Alec hooks a finger around Magnus’s tie—fuck, why is he always wearing a suit?—and pulls him into the room. Magnus moves without an ounce of reluctance. His eyes are darker than usual, roaming over Alec’s face, searching for something. 

“I’m going to need a verbal declaration of want, here, Alexander. I don't often request things like that.”

“Yes, you do,” Alec murmurs, amused. 

“Yes, I do, don't I?” Magnus looks proud. “And you usually deliver.”

“Magnus Bane,” Alec says patiently, sliding his hand up Magnus’s neck and burying his fingers in his hair. “I want you. We are already raising a demonic little child together, I know exactly how you like your disgusting tea, and I haven’t stopped wanting you since I met you. Will that do?”

Magnus looks a little lost for a moment, as though the thought of Alec wanting him is so inconceivable that it takes his brain a moment to convince itself the words really happened. It brings an ache to Alec’s chest, but the truth is, both of their aches are easily soothed. 

“I remember a little bit of that night, in Tokyo,” Alec offers, smiling at him. “Not enough, though.”

Magnus laughs incredulously. “You do? I’ve been trying not to think of that night. I didn't know if you had forgotten, or if you remembered and simply didn't want to speak of it again.”

“I wanted to. I just thought it was a moment of boredom for you,” Alec admits. “And that I was close by.”

“You were,” Magnus says, softening the blow with a hand to his cheek. “But you were close because I was at your side all the time. You were close because I wanted you close. And you wanted to be?”

The last is a question when it shouldn’t be. Alec kisses him slowly, deeply, trying to get the message across, since it seems Magnus is determined to be stubbornly unsure today, even though Alec has done nothing but lean into his every touch, hang off his every word, and stare so blatantly that it’s obvious to everyone alive. But if he missed the same feelings happening inside Magnus, then he supposes he can forgive the reverse. 

“I just asked to be very, very close to you,” Alec points, when they draw back for breath, buttons undoing and shirts vanishing at a rapid rate. “I can’t believe you have to ask.”

Magnus laughs, pushing them both back onto the bed and bracketing Alec’s hips with his knees. He’s a warm weight, a delicious pressure, a delightful smile in the dark. 

“Perhaps I just like hearing it.”

*

“We raised a baby together,” Alec says slowly, letting go of the dish so it can wash itself. “We have a child.”

“Correction, we have a miserably awful teenager who refuses to listen to anything but country music simply to punish us for not magically removing his hormones,” Magnus says, scowling at the wall, which vibrates with the force of Catherine McGrath’s familiar, abrasive tones. “What, I ask you, is wrong with a little sophistication?” 

“Magnus,” Alec says urgently, but Magnus doesn’t seem to hear him, far too exasperated to listen to Alec’s complaints. 

“Honestly, Tchaikovsky always had more class than this. What’s so aggrieving about something classical every now and again, rather than the thundering drone of a thousand rolling tumbleweeds?”

He lets Magnus rant, staring wide-eyed around their apartment. It’s grown, now, to accommodate three people, which means there are doors all over the place, leading off to different rooms, some of which Alec is sure he hasn’t been in. The floor is scattered with shoes and different coats hang from the rack, and the surfaces are all littered with debris. Paintings hang on the walls and there are drawings in crayon along the skirting-boards, from years ago. 

Christmases have come and gone in this place. Birthday cake has been thrown on this very floor. Yogurts spilled, arguments had, gifts given, jokes made, keys lost, tears shed, fevers abated, puzzles finished, ticklish spots found, hair (inadvisably) dyed, scrapes kissed, moments had. 

It still hits Alec, every now and again, that none of this was something they asked for. That had they ignored the summons presented to them, a baby in a burlap sack would have been found by somebody else, someone less kind, someone far less dedicated, someone who was not them. It hits them that they could have raised Michael in a week and shoved him out in the world, where he would End it. 

Instead, Magnus sat with him as he grew and read history books to him, detailing the violence they had seen, the pain caused, the losses felt. Alec talked of politics, of the rough shape of the world and how it could be changed if people stood together. They sat, Michael between them, sipping grumpily on a hot chocolate, and watched documentaries of the horrors of the world, and how humanity chose to grow again and again. 

Instead, they taught him how to tie his shoelaces, how to dance, how to ask someone out on a date even when he felt shy. They took him to school and watched him make friends, eyes glamoured, smile real. Magnus made fun of Michael’s fondness for bad TV shows, and Alec teased him about his attention to his hair. 

And now they have a kind, good, somewhat grumpy, passive-aggressive teenager, who was going to grow up even more and change the world for good. All on his own, because as much as they had done, it was Michael that had decided to be kind and good and somewhat grumpy. The passive-aggressiveness was still probably down to their involvement. 

“Oh, now he’s just being ridiculous,” Magnus says, staring aghast at the wall. The volume has only gone up in the past few minutes. “I don't think I’m going to have any sympathy for country singers after this, and I used to enjoy Carrie Underwood at times. He is ruining my ability to be empathetic, Alexander.”

“He’s your son,” Alec says, abandoning the messy kitchen in favour of slumping with Magnus on the couch. 

“Yours too.” Magnus pulls him in, hands tightening around his waist as he moves to lie down. Alec lets out a surprised laugh when Magnus kisses his neck, sliding his lips down the stark tattoos that linger there. Magnus draws back slightly, peering up at him playfully. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing could be wrong while I’m with you,” Alec says, smiling down at him, earning a soft, deep kiss. Then he smirks. “But trust you to use the noise to your advantage.”

“Never waste an opportunity to get your hands all over your deliciously half-dressed partner, I always say.”

“And you wonder why we have a terror for a son,” Alec muses, letting Magnus swing them around, the couch expanding for their sprawled limbs. “Mmm.”

“At least half of that is your influence,” Magnus reminds him, dimpling down at him. Alec has a moment to rejoice in that, to take in the thumping wails of the music in next room and think, _ah, yes, I did that, we did that,_ before Magnus kisses away the rest of his thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Let me know what you thought?


End file.
